


Cat Among the Peacocks

by PutItBriefly



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Background Jane/Bingley, F/M, Minor showings of other Bennet family members that are not large enough to rate tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-03-20 06:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13711467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PutItBriefly/pseuds/PutItBriefly
Summary: While attending a masked ball in London, Elizabeth attracts the attention of a peculiar man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LucyKatie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyKatie/gifts).



> Some months ago, I was having a conversation with a friend who accused me of hating fluffy stories. Determined to prove I did not hate fluff, I told her to give me a fluffy prompt and I would write a story right then and there. She gave me a few, I turned my nose up at them all and her point was proven. But the next day, one of the prompts turned into a story in my head and "Cat Among the Peacocks" was born. My friend demanded more than just the one chapter and it turned into a four chapters and (likely epilogue) story.

Mrs. Barry was, in temperament and circumstance, as different from her younger brother as a woman could be. To her, life in the country held no appeal, and so when Mr. Barry brought her to live year-round in London, she could not have been more pleased. Mr. Barry himself was a man suited to her in every way, excepting that God had seen fit to grant him a very short duration on this earth and his wife a very long one. By the year 1811, Mrs. Barry was quite expertly a widow with no children and an abundance of independence. She kept a house in town, enjoyed society and gossip, and never picked up a book if she could avoid it. She was a diligent correspondent, though not with her brother, for two people as different as they never had much to say to one another and she never _had_ learnt to approve of his wife.  
  
Mrs. Barry’s reasons for disliking Mrs. Bennet were many. Upon being introduced, she had disliked Miss Gardiner for having the temerity to _be_ a Miss Gardiner when a woman of sense would have been the daughter of a gentleman rather than an attorney. As she came to better know Miss Gardiner, this insupportable disgust, based on things Miss Gardiner had no control over at all, was transformed into one far more reasonable, in that it was rooted in her conduct, education and choices.  
  
The choice Mrs. Barry found most unacceptable was that Mrs. Bennet’s five daughters were all out at once. Miss Bennet, Mrs. Barry could be heard saying as often as she could manage it, would have surely found a husband years ago if she were not competing for men with sisters half her age. That Miss Lydia had not been half Miss Bennet’s age since the latter was 14 years old was a detail beyond the interest of Mrs. Barry.  
  
But such a spirit in Mrs. Barry did explain why, when a friend of hers suggested she bring her nieces to a costume ball, Mrs. Barry extended the invitation to Miss Bennet and Miss Bennet alone.  
  
Upon receiving the notice of her eldest child’s being invited to a costume ball in London, Mrs. Bennet threw down the letter with disgust. “She ought to invite Lydia! I shall not be sending Jane! Jane has Mr. Bingley! I had really better send _Lydia_!”  
  
Such an outburst at the breakfast table confused all the family. Lydia snatched up the letter. She read it quickly and squealed. “Oh, Mama! Do! Do tell Mrs. Barry I shall go, please!”  
  
Kitty reached across the table to tear the letter out of Lydia’s hand. “What are you talking about?”  
  
Before Kitty had the chance to read the letter, Lydia cried, “Mrs. Barry has been invited to a costume ball in London! She writes that my mother must send Jane!” Lydia turned to call down the table, “You have a beau, Jane! You do not need to go to a costume ball! I will surely come back from it engaged! You shall see!”  
  
Mrs. Bennet wrote her sister that she would not send Jane for all the world, and should send Lydia instead, for Lydia was the second prettiest and was bound to know success.  
  
Mrs. Barry wrote in return that Lydia had _not_ been invited and that Mrs. Barry was of no mind to be party to Mrs. Bennet’s continual insult of her elder daughters, and that if Miss Bennet were engaged, surely her betrothed would understand that a young lady could not be faulted for desiring to have a gay evening, that she was quite insulted that no one had mentioned a word of the engagement to her, and that, if Miss Bennet’s young man was absolutely resolved against having her go, then Miss Elizabeth really ought to come.  
  
Mrs. Bennet was forced to confess that her daughter was not engaged, per _se,_ but she had recently made the acquaintance of an eligible young man and they were all hoping for something to come of it.  
  
That being the case, Mrs. Barry demanded that Jane come, and so, it was decided that Jane would go.  
  
Jane Bennet was not afraid of anyone.  
  
Not because she was of a particularly fearsome character, or that she prided herself on courage, but because it had never occurred to her that some other person might wish to do her harm. So, it must be understood that when Jane wrote to her aunt that she was afraid to go to a costume ball without knowing anyone and that she would feel much braver if Elizabeth were to go as well, this was a prevarication on Jane’s part.  
  
Jane did not feel any trepidation about going to a ball in her aunt’s society. Being rather enamored with Mr. Bingley, however, she also did not care to leave her _own_ society. There was no refusing the invitation—that would be rude—and so Jane had decided to use what power she had as the eldest and most marriageable sister to make the best of the situation.  
  
And for Jane, making the best of the situation meant bringing Elizabeth.  
  
Elizabeth had not lately had the luck with young men that Jane had. Mr. Bingley entranced Jane from the very first moment they met. That same night, Mr. Bingley’s friend Mr. Darcy had been rude and demeaning towards Elizabeth. Although she had enjoyed telling the story among her friends to display Mr. Darcy’s arrogance and pomposity, her vanity had been wounded by his neglect. He left the neighbourhood almost immediately after, called to London on vague business that Mr. Bingley did not know the full particulars of. He apologised to the neighbourhood profusely, as though believing his friend to be greatly missed.  
  
Mrs. Barry was not truly amenable to Jane’s plea, but by consequence of being nearly estranged from her brother’s family, she did believe Jane was afraid. Because she wished for Jane to come to the ball and she believed that would happen only if Elizabeth came as well, Mrs. Barry sought permission from her friend to bring _two_ nieces.  
  
“That is not fair!” Lydia cried the morning this final letter was read. “My mother wanted _me_ to go! Why should _Lizzy_ go?”  
  
Mrs. Bennet clucked. “Why that woman, who has no children of her own, thinks she knows the better way to marry five daughters I shall never know!”  
  
“She should invite all of us!” Kitty insisted.  
  
“I am sure she would if it were she that is _giving_ the ball,” Jane said. “But this is a ball hosted by a _friend_ of hers and she cannot have the power to invite as many people as she likes.”  
  
Elizabeth smiled into her napkin. It was kind of Jane to attempt a reconciliation, but they all knew Mrs. Barry to be unmoved from her ideas about precedence. Where Mrs. Barry had a say, Lydia would not be invited until her older sisters were married!  
  
***  
All of the back and forth about who was to attend the costume ball had resulted in Elizabeth arriving in London unprepared. With admirable speed, Mrs. Barry’s maids rifled through their mistress’s old and unused things and compiled a costume for Elizabeth. They began with a green gown made of metallic gauze and took it in to fit Elizabeth. Over that, they laid blue machine-made net, torn off a white evening gown. The final product was blue in some light, green in others and almost iridescent. They sewed peacock feathers to the train, and used still more feathers to construct a mask.  
  
Elizabeth arrived at the ball not Miss Elizabeth, but Miss Peacock.  
  
In a ruffled red gown, Jane styled herself a rose. Mrs. Barry’s gown was nothing out of the ordinary, but she wore a paper mask in the Venetian style.  
When they arrived, a pretty young lady greeted them and exclaimed over their costumes. This was their hostess, the newly married Mrs. Wilkes. Mrs. Barry a particular friend of her mother-in-law. She disappeared into the sea of people in search of the other Mrs. Wilkes.  
  
The younger Mrs. Wilkes said to the Miss Bennets, her voice ringing with laughter, “I am sure you know everyone!” and made no attempt at further introductions.  
  
Arm in arm, Jane and Elizabeth walked a circuit around the ballroom, admiring the variety of costumes. Many were exquisitely crafted, some had been thrown together quickly, like Elizabeth’s, and still others in attendance had not worn a full costume, but only a mask. They took great delight in trying to determine what different ladies and gentlemen were supposed to be.  
  
As the first set commenced, Elizabeth was asked to dance by a gentleman wearing a grey coat and an unnerving, long nosed mask. She quite enjoyed the dance and he was an interesting partner, but she puzzled over his costume. With their dance was over, she finally asked, “Sir, before I go, you must tell me what your costume is intended to be, for I have been unable to determine it.”  
  
Beneath the mask, he laughed lightly. “I am lately come from India, Miss Peacock. Forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Colonel Elephant.”  
  
“Do not apologise, Colonel! Mrs. Wilkes herself has assured me I know everyone here, so you see, there can be no need for introductions!”  
  
Colonel Elephant returned Elizabeth to Mrs. Barry. Jane’s partner had done the same, and for the second set, they merely exchanged partners. Jane stood up with Colonel Elephant, and Elizabeth stood up with Mr. Toucan. Mr. Toucan was not quite so interesting as Colonel Elephant, but they laughed over both coming to the costume ball as birds.  
  
For the third set, a young man dressed as a hussar claimed Jane’s hand.  
  
“Why, he did not make that costume at all!” Elizabeth cried when they were gone. “That is a real uniform, I am certain of it! Imagine! Coming to a costume ball without a costume!”  
  
“Some of us are only wearing masks,” Mrs. Barry said.  
  
“Well, a mask is mask! It hides your identity so far as you _wish_ for your identity to be hidden. It is costume enough. What I cannot abide is someone coming to a costume ball and wearing no costume at all, just their everyday dress and thinking the rest of us shall be fooled!”  
  
A young man in a peculiar state of dress, who had been walking past Elizabeth’s group stopped. He wore a black coat and waistcoat, black breeches and white stockings, gloves and slippers. His black mask covered nearly his entire face. The white slippers were too strange for his dress to not be intended as a costume, but Elizabeth could not divine what he meant to be. He stayed just where he was until Jane rejoined the group and the conversation turned to something else.  
  
For the fourth set, Elizabeth returned to the dance, this time with a Mr. Knight. Mr. Knight was a dull-witted companion, who very much appreciated his own sense of humour, which was limited to his brother attending the ball as a horse. As she and Mr. Knight moved down the long line of couples, Elizabeth again noticed the peculiar gentleman. He was not dancing, but walking about the room. Where ever she was, he seemed to be directly in her line of sight. The tails of his coat were pinned together, in an overlapping manner, so he had just one tail in the center.  
  
Elizabeth supposed it might be awkward for a gentleman to walk with his coat pinned so, and tried to remember if he had danced. Yes. He had danced with Mrs. Wilkes in the first set. She frowned. He was not Mr. Wilkes. Mrs. Barry had introduced her properly to Mr. Wilkes when she was seated during the third set. He must be an important man.  
  
When the fifth set came, Colonel Elephant asked her to dance again. He was the most interesting of her partners and Elizabeth was pleased to be so favoured. While they were dancing, she asked, “Which of all these costumes is your favourite?”  
  
“Yours,” Colonel Elephant replied.  
  
Elizabeth flushed and said something about how she was really asking and not looking for a compliment.  
  
“It is,” he insisted. “It is why I asked you to dance the first set.”  
  
“It is just an old gown of my aunt’s that her maid sewed feathers to,” she said.  
  
“Oh, it is not the gown I like,” Colonel Elephant said. “It is that I happen to know a great many men proud as peacocks. The thought of such birds diverts me.”  
  
“I pray you do not think me so proud!”  
  
“Do you dislike pride so much then?”  
  
“Oh, I do not mind it in the abstract. Certainly, there are worse sins. But where one person’s pride humiliates another, then I do not forgive it.”  
  
“Nor would I ask you to.”  
  
The dance seperated them for a moment. Whilst Elizabeth joined hands with some others, she noticed the peculiar man was again very near to her. His hair was styled in an unusual manner. That, too, must be part of his costume.  
  
When she and Colonel Elephant were next together, she asked, “Pray, what do you think of that man?”  
  
The Colonel laughed. “He looks like a man who came only because he was told Mrs. Wilkes would take it as a personal insult if he did not.”  
  
“Such a strange costume he has!”  
  
“Stranger than mine? Remember, you could not determine my costume earlier.”  
  
“I have never seen an elephant, so you must forgive me.”  
  
“I thank you for your courtesy. Others would call my costume a poor representation of elephants.”  
  
“We have no use for such critical people, do we?”  
  
“Indeed, we do not!”  
  
After her dance with Colonel Elephant had come to its end, Elizabeth was approached by the peculiar man. He came to her where she stood with Mrs. Barry, bowed and said nothing. Elizabeth and the rest of the group curtseyed. The peculiar man still said nothing.  
  
“How are you enjoying the ball?” Elizabeth asked.  
  
He said, “I am not.”  
  
“You have not danced since the first set. You may find a ball more to your liking if you danced.”  
  
“I was hoping you would make such a suggestion.”  
  
“Oh? Is it your usual custom to behave in an odd manner so that unfamiliar ladies might make commonplace observations to you?”  
  
Mrs. Barry’s younger friends tittered behind their fans.  
  
“Miss Peacock,” he began again, “if you are not otherwise engaged, will you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”  
  
“I should be delighted, Mr…” Elizabeth looked that strange costume up and down. She really could not tell what he intended to be. “Crow?”  
  
The peculiar man took her hand and led her to their place in the set. Her earlier supposition that he was a gentleman of some renown was supported by his arranging them at the top of the line.  
  
“You have the advantage, I think,” Elizabeth said. “I am here as a guest of my aunt and have never met anyone before. You are well-known among this society.”  
  
“Who is your aunt?”  
  
“Mrs. Barry. Are you acquainted?”  
  
“Mrs. Wilkes has assured me I know everyone here,” the peculiar man said, “though in truth, Mrs. Barry is among those I know by reputation only.”  
  
“How strange! Mrs. Wilkes assured me of the very same!”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
There was something in his manner of saying it that felt to Elizabeth like he was laughing at her. “I do not mingle much in London society, but I know among a private ball, where all the guests have been invited, a hostess may forgo giving proper introductions to everybody.”  
  
He shook his head. “Your friend—the elephant—he told me you said that.”  
  
“I had no notion elephants were such untrustworthy creatures!” She laughed. “Why, I asked him about you and he did not admit to knowing you!” Colonel Elephant’s assessment of the peculiar man had been quite specific. He must have thought it implied.  
  
“I should not like to incriminate myself through my connection to him,” the peculiar man said, “so I shall say nothing more on the topic.”  
  
True to his word, he said nothing more about Colonel Elephant, but he said nothing more about anything else, either. “It is up to me to supply the conversation,” Elizabeth surmised. “You may regret it. Are you enjoying the ball better now that you are dancing?”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“You should ask ladies to dance more often.”  
  
“You do not think I ask them often enough?”  
  
“No, I have seen you all night, walking around the room by yourself.”  
  
“That may be so,” the peculiar man answered, “but to say that I do not ask ladies to dance often enough—that is a term of frequency. Who is to determine what degree of frequency is satisfactory?”  
  
“Well, if it were _me_ ,” Elizabeth said, “then I should say that if a gentleman dances so infrequently that a young lady may watch him walk through the room all evening, then that is not often enough.”  
  
“I dispute that; it is the ideal frequency.”  
  
“It is not enough to declare your opinion, now you must defend it.”  
  
“I have been watching you all evening,” he admitted. It was a matter of fact statement. He was neither embarrassed by it nor trying to charm or flatter her.  
  
“I have heard you make clever remarks to Mrs. Barry and her set. I began to think I should not mind dancing with you myself and every further conversation you have had only reinforced that belief.”  
  
“You hold young ladies to very high standards, Mr. Crow.”  
  
He said nothing, then, after a moment, startled and said, “I do.”  
  
“I ought to be offended on behalf of my sex, but having passed muster, I afraid I do not quite have the ability to do so.”  
  
“You should understand—you danced with Mr. Humphrey.”  
  
“I do not know who that is.”  
  
“The gentleman dressed as a knight.”  
  
“Oh!” Elizabeth giggled. “Oh, yes. As a man you have the right of asking—you can avoid asking a tiresome woman at all, if you just know her a bit before you do.”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
Suddenly, out of nowhere, he said, “I am a cat.”  
  
His odd hair was intended to be ears and the tails of his coat were pinned to be one. His slippers were white because, “You have white paws!”  
  
“Yes. My sister wished to paint the bottom of the slippers pink, but I thought that unnecessary.”  
  
“Is your sister here to-night?” Elizabeth looked around the couples. “You must tell me what she is dressed as.”  
  
“She is not. She is not yet out.”  
  
“Is she terribly jealous? I have younger sisters myself who are not in attendance and two of them assured me before I left home that I should never see them again because they were surely to die from the pain being excluded.”  
  
“No, not terribly so. She is shy and does not care to dance, though the costume aspect of this ball did delight her fancy.”  
  
“Would she approve of my costume?”  
  
“I think she would—though, I do wonder that you chose to come as a peacock.”  
  
Elizabeth laughed. “It was not my choice. Mrs. Barry had the feathers and the gowns already. My coming to the ball was a last minute decision, so I had to make do with what she had available. You do not like it?”  
  
His mask covered a great deal of his face, but the bits of skin she could see turned red. “Indeed—I do. Green suits you. I question it only because peacocks are males.”  
  
“Well, I could not devise a very pretty pea _hen_ costume, could I! Birds with beautiful plumage are almost always the males, you know.”  
  
Mr. White-Pawed Cat could not refute that.  
  
Though she had the upper hand, Elizabeth said, “I feel as though I have been caught. A helpless bird, hunted all evening by a cat.”  
  
“I do not think a peacock has much to fear from a cat.”  
  
“I am relieved to hear it.”  
  
The dance separated them and when the came together again, he said, “You could have been a swan.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Female swans are beautiful.”  
  
“I have not the neck for it.”  
  
The danced ended. He stilled. “You are staying with Mrs. Barry.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Mr. White-Pawed Cat reached for her hand. She let him take it and they walked toward her aunt. “May I call on you to-morrow?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
She suspected he wished to say more. Perhaps, that she had a lovely neck, or enchanting eyes. Instead, he bowed over her hand and took his leave.  
  
Mr. White-Pawed Cat asked no other ladies to dance for the rest of the evening. Elizabeth danced with everyone that asked, enjoyed dancing with all of her partners. But, no matter where she was in the room, she never had to look far before she was caught in the gaze of Mr. White-Pawed Cat. From across the room, she could not make out his eyes. Behind the mask, she could see little of his face. The intensity of his looks must then be in her imagination. But, it made her shiver.  
  
She longed to ask her aunt everything she knew, but by his own account, Mr. White-Pawed Cat knew Mrs. Barry only by reputation. Elizabeth did not know his name and Mrs. Barry could not recognise a man she did not know.  
  
Elizabeth did not consider herself the sort of woman who lost her head over a young man all at once, but there was something especially fanciful about meeting a gentleman at a costume ball that she was not even supposed to be attending, to have this mysterious man so enamoured with her that he must come see her straight away—though none of her other partners had asked to do the same, and he had not had her name. She had too much sense to be half-in love with him, but she was half-in love with the idea of him.  
  
At the end of the evening, he appeared again, as if by magic, to hand Elizabeth into the carriage. He asked Mrs. Barry if he may call to-morrow and once her permission was granted, returned to the crush of people waiting for their carriages, walking toward Colonel Elephant.  
  
Mrs. Barry leaned back into the carriage squabs and clucked her tongue. “Well! I shall not forbid any young man the Wilkeses approve of from coming to my house, but you ought to wait until Jane is married before you beckon young men to your side, Elizabeth.”  
  
The sisters giggled.  
  
***  
Mrs. Barry’s butler was not a man known for his humour or flexibility. The ladies had been in the sitting room for some time, pretending that their needlework was of more interest than the imminent arrival of Elizabeth’s unknown beau.  
  
The butler entered, handed Mrs. Barry a card and said, with dignity revolted by playacting, “A Mr. _Cat_ to see you, madam.”  
  
Mrs. Barry read the card, turned white and fiercely demanded, “ _Send him in._ ”  
  
The butler sniffed and departed.  
  
Mrs. Barry lunged toward Elizabeth, who could not fight her aunt off for the confusion. She pulled Elizabeth’s fichu off and stuffed it behind the sofa cushions. “He is here.” Mrs. Barry said in an urgent whisper. She pinched Elizabeth’s cheeks. “He is—I had no idea, no notion at all—very powerful family, Elizabeth, you had best show yourself to your advantage.”  
  
“Not until Jane is married, surely!”  
  
“Now is not the time, Elizabeth!”  
  
The butler walked loudly on his approach.  
  
The ladies tensed.  
  
The door opened.  
  
The ladies rose.  
  
“Miss Elizabeth!”  
  
“Mr. Darcy!”


	2. Chapter 2

Colonel Fitzwilliam, just recently returned to England after three years in India, had done little to establish himself in London. He was an easy-going man, accustomed to taking orders and accepting deprivation, both in his professional and personal lives. In his view, to be a soldier and to be a younger son were much the same—you lived and died by the orders of your superiors, and that was the only way anything could be accomplished.  
  
With few engagements and no particular establishment of his own, more evenings than not the colonel could be found dining at his club. Of the quality of the food, Brooks’s could not boast. A diner with exacting tastes had better eat at his own table so one must excuse Colonel Fitzwilliam’s surprise when his cousin Darcy appeared.    
  
“Allow me to put your fears to rest; we shall _not_ be completing for the favour of Miss Peacock.” Darcy dropped into the seat opposite Fitzwilliam.  
  
“Had a flaw, did she? Human women, all the same, forever daring to be imperfect.” With an amused shake of the head, the colonel said, “Well, do not begrudge me my turn.”  
  
Darcy’s lips curled. “You misunderstand; I have already won.”  
  
“Already won?” Fitzwilliam laughed. “Darcy, come now. You are not so charming as all that. Ladies require more wooing than two dances and a visit.”  
  
“You cannot afford her.”  
  
Fitzwilliam set down his knife and fork, leaning back in his chair. “You mean to tell me clever Miss Peacock wants your purse, and you have accepted that?”  
  
“No, not at all.” Darcy picked up the napkin in front of him, shook it out and draped it over his lap. “I mean to tell you she is too poor for you.”  
  
“She is a _Barry.”_  
  
A manservant appeared, presenting Darcy with his dinner and wine. Darcy nodded in approval to the man, and then said to his cousin, “She is Mrs. Barry’s niece.”  
  
“Yes, and?”  
  
 _“Mrs._ Barry’s niece—her own, not her husband’s.”  
  
Colonel Fitzwilliam was silent.  
  
Darcy turned his attention to the offering on his plate, unsuitable to a palate so discriminating as his own. Since Fitzwilliam’s return, Darcy had been urging him to apply for membership at Boodle’s. His argument hinged fully on the quality of the food. It was the company Fitzwilliam disdained. Old country gentlemen, idle and complacent, were impossible to tolerate. The wine, the gambling and the politics of Brooks’s satisfied the colonel.   
  
“Have you ever considered Mrs. Barry’s origins?”  
  
“Mrs. Barry,” Fitzwilliam replied, “is an institution. She sprouted from the Berkeley Street dirt a gossiping old matron.”  
  
Darcy frowned at his beef. “To my regret, I must inform you she was born a baby and brought up by parents, difficult as it is to imagine.”  
  
“Enough of your superior knowledge. What has this to do with Miss Peacock?”   
  
“I am acquainted with the family. Their estate is in Hertfordshire.”  
  
“She’s a part of Bingley’s society, is she? I wish you would have told me that from the start.”  
  
“I had not realised it myself. She does not wear a mask in Hertfordshire, and I had not had the pleasure of conversing with her before Wilkes’s ball.”  
  
The colonel laughed. “No wonder she thought you were daft.”  
  
Darcy bristled. _“_ _She_ had not recognised _me,_ either.”  
  
It was a delightful bit of absurdity, the very sort Darcy took such great pains to avoid. “You called on her,” Fitzwilliam could scarcely believe his own words, “entered the house—and then, what? You both realised it at once?”  
  
Across Darcy’s face, the humiliation of admitting that was precisely the case warred with his stubborn penchant for complete earnestness in all his doings. There was a twist of his lips, a clenching of his hands before “Yes,” escaped from between his teeth.  
  
Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Victory does not suit you at all! Try to be better pleased when you unearth a pearl who has been buried in the country.”  
  
Darcy shrugged. “As you have said, it takes more than two dances and a visit to woo a lady.”  
  
Fitzwilliam raised his glass. “Best of luck to you in this endeavour.”  
  
***  
Mrs. Barry’s nieces could not escape London without first calling on Mrs. Wilkes to thank her for inviting them to the costume ball. This itself was a painless duty, though even without the revelry of a ball around her, Mrs. Wilkes was as empty-headed and laughing as she had been in the midst of it. A married woman now, she looked upon all single ladies with a mixture of pity and condescension. It was her duty to find them husbands, of course.  
  
The most natural place to begin such a hunt was with the men at her ball. Both of the young ladies now in her drawing room had danced with a number of worthy, single gentlemen. Jane could not be roused to any interest in her partners. She had enjoyed their company at the ball, had a lovely time in general, but she could not attach any significance to anyone she had met. She left her heart in Hertfordshire and there it would stay.  
  
Elizabeth could claim no greater curiosity than her sister. The most promising of her partners had come to call, as a young man ought. She had suffered through fifteen agonising minutes of a reunion with Mr. Darcy. One would think a man so critical and so disinclined to hide it would pay diligent attention to everything around him. He must catalogue the faults and imperfections of everything he saw so that he might hug himself at his leisure—the only perfect specimen. But he proved instead to be absent-minded and prone to long bouts of silence before a question from her aunt would stir him into giving the necessary answer.  
  
It had been humiliating. First, Elizabeth berated herself for her failure to recognise him. True, he had spent very little time in Hertfordshire. But looking back, Elizabeth felt she ought to have known it was him. He had stalked the edges of the ballroom, refusing to dance nearly all night, just as he had in Meryton. And though they had never spoken to each other at home, she _had_ heard him speak to others! Had the timbre of his voice made so little an impression on her? The words he uttered back then were so demeaning, so indefensible she could hardly forget them. And yet, at the costume ball, when she found herself the object he favoured, she had all but praised the ridiculous conceit that led him to insult her in Meryton!  
  
The second humiliation was how quickly her allure vanished when she was presented to Mr. Darcy without the aid of a costume. He was taken with her at the ball. They talked and danced; he watched her, followed her, longed to see her again. But in Mrs. Barry’s sitting room, he was silent.   
  
Worst of all, Mrs. Barry refused to concern herself with the change in his manners! Elizabeth tried to explain that she and Darcy knew one another, that Darcy had no interest in her, but her aunt would not listen.  
  
And now, Mrs. Barry had hauled them all to visit the younger Mrs. Wilkes and recruit that innocent woman into the matchmaking efforts!  
  
“Let me try and remember,” Mrs. Wilkes said. “I believe you danced with the elephant first?” Mrs. Barry nodded sharply. “That is Colonel Fitzwilliam. He is the second son of Lord ——, he came home from India just this summer. Some trouble in the family, but they have hushed it up quite well. No one knows what it was all about. If I am not mistaken, he liked you, but younger sons, you know—they must marry money.”  
  
“And the others?” Mrs. Barry asked.  
  
“What my aunt means to say,” Elizabeth interjected, “is what do you know about _Mr. Darcy?”_ Mrs. Barry’s fixation on the gentleman was painful enough. Elizabeth refused to add to her suffering by letting her aunt pretend she was not settled on any particular man and wait until Mrs. Wilkes just happened to mention him.  
  
“Darcy?” Mrs. Wilkes blinked. “He is the colonel’s cousin, you know. My husband likes nobody better, but I have always found him quite rude. His manners are especially bad, but I should not be the one to say so. He forgot all about my ball, you know, ran off to Hertfordshire with those Bingley people for no reason at all. My husband had to go fetch him and tell him how distraught I was that he had forgotten me.”  
  
“That is the way of great men,” Mrs. Barry said. “One cannot expect them to remember the whim of every lady they encounter. There, now, Elizabeth, you were so worried that his inattention meant he did not like you. It is _habitual.”_  
  
“Oblivious men are the only ones worth knowing, after all,” Elizabeth replied wryly. She bristled at her aunt categorizing her as worried. She would have assigned other descriptors to a woman in her place: certain, disappointed, resigned, _over it._  
  
“Mr. Wilkes says he is going to the theatre to-night.”  
  
“Going without you?” Mrs. Barry asked.  
  
“Oh!” Mrs. Wilkes tittered. “Not Mr. Wilkes—Mr. Wilkes says _Mr. Darcy_ is going to the theatre to-night. Mr. Wilkes says Mr. Darcy has not seen _All in the Wrong_ yet, which I find hard to credit. Who has not seen it?”  
  
The visit could not continue once intelligence of such magnitude had been revealed. Mrs. Barry made her excuses and hurriedly ushered her nieces out of the house. There was too much to be done to stay another moment gossiping in a sitting room. They did not have seats! They did not have anything to wear!     
  
Mrs. Barry’s coach lurched down the street in fits and stops. She herself did not maintain a box at the New Theatre Royal. Her first object now was to remember who among her friends did, and if they could spare a chair for Elizabeth to-night. Leaping out of the carriage, running up the steps, into parlours and back out again was the most exercise Elizabeth had had since coming to London. It took seven attempts before they found someone who knew their box to be half-empty to-night. Mrs. Black’s cousin would be at the theatre, but that family would not take every chair. She was certain there would be two more.  
  
With profuse thanks and curtseys and promises of favours returned on some unknown future date, Mrs. Barry again hustled her nieces out of a house and into the carriage. Her seat procured, they could turn their attention to what Elizabeth was going to wear!  
  
At the time of Mrs. Barry’s youth, Longbourn had been much the same as it was now. She herself had once been at the mercy of a father whose income was small and whose access to fashionable society was limited. One would not know it to see her rifle through Elizabeth’s gowns and declare each one unworthy of Mr. Darcy. With a sneer, she consigned the very best of Elizabeth’s evening gowns to the hands of a maid. Polly could not improve the quality of the fabric or remake it with a more fashionable cut, but a bit of trim here and better lace there was possible.  
  
Now jewels! Elizabeth had not been afforded the time to so much as wince at her best gown being taken to pieces before she was pulled away to model necklaces and earrings.  
  
***  
“How do you like the performance?”  
  
There had been actors and actresses upon the stage. Darcy knew that.  
  
But, across the wide expanse of the parterre, sat Miss Elizabeth Bennet. What cared Darcy about a performance when he could watch her? When the curtain fell, and intermission came, he would cross the theatre to see her. Throughout the first act, all of his energy had been devoted to meticulously planning what he would say to her.   
  
When he called at Mrs. Barry’s house the day after the ball, he had been shocked to learn the identity of her nieces. Darcy had not had time to recover from the surprise before Mrs. Barry intervened, dominating and directing the conversation. He supposed she felt any moment without someone speaking indicated some failure on her part as a hostess. She had talked relentlessly, never giving him the opportunity to break from her questions and apply himself to the young lady he had come to see.   
  
To-night, the advantage was his. Darcy would not be caught off-guard again. When intermission came, he would approach Miss Bennet and ensure she received the lion’s share of his attention. _He_ would lead the conversation.  
  
When intermission finally came, Darcy looked towards the box. It was empty. His disappointment was immense. He fell back heavily into his chair as the other men in his box departed to greet ladies of their own. Surely she knew he would come to see her. Why would she not stay?  
  
His satisfaction when _she_ entered _his_ box was immeasurable.  
  
In close proximity, the sight of her made his mouth go dry. She was the picture of delicacy and elegance. She had dressed for him, he knew, because of the green trim that traced her neckline and raised her bust. He had said green suited her. She must remember his comment that she could be a swan, understood he spoke of the beauty and gracefulness of her neck. She had strung emeralds around it.  
  
But, more importantly, Miss Bennet had asked him a question. Darcy faltered. “It is adequate.” He prayed she would ask no additional questions about the play. He had not been paying attention.  
  
Miss Bennet licked her lips and tossed her head. Her impatience for him to say something pretty and flattering must be growing. He had meant to say such things. But now that the time had come, and she was looking as she did, waiting for him as she did, Darcy could not remember a word. He wanted to seize her by the hips, pull her body to him and kiss her on the neck.  
  
“Miss Peacock!” Colonel Fitzwilliam cried. “In green again, I see.” He stepped around her as he entered the box. “It must be a favourite colour of yours.”  
  
“Not at all,” Miss Bennet answered. She smiled lightly, the whisper of a private joke behind her lips. “My aunt says a woman with dark eyes should always wear green. It brings out her hidden flavour.”  
  
“And what say you to that?” Fitzwilliam asked.  
  
“Well, _my_ hidden flavour is cabbage, so naturally I told her it was best left covered.”  
  
Miss Bennet’s eyes glittered. To repeat a bon mot did not decrease her pleasure in their delivery.   
  
She was no heiress. Fitzwilliam could not afford her. For her sake, she should be left in the hands of a man able to provide for her. Darcy thought he had been clear about that. What did the colonel think there was to be gain by his flirting?   
  
“Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam prompted, _“_ _you_ think Miss Peacock looks pretty, do you not?”  
  
“Yes,” Darcy muttered offhandedly, “very pretty.” His intermission plan had not included interference from an overly friendly relation.  
  
“I know.”  
  
The colonel laughed again. “You know?”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Miss Bennet replied easily. “Mr. Darcy is not the first to call me pretty, you know.” Her eyes twinkled. “The first to call me _tolerable_ , but not the first to call me pretty.”  
  
Colonel Fitzwilliam sent him a sidelong glance. “Darcy _does_ enjoy treading new ground.”  
  
Miss Bennet was still new to London society, come from a insular, tiny neighbourhood. Scarcely any of the families near Meryton had been worthy of association. Darcy could not remembering meeting even one local gentleman whose condition in life would make him a suitable husband for any of the Miss Bennets. They were all too poor, too young or too married. She had turned his head, and by all appearances, the head of his cousin, but could she have even more suitors? It should be impossible. She had no great breeding, her only worthwhile connection were the in-laws of a widowed aunt, her beauty was easy to overlook until one heard her voice and saw her move.  
  
The dull buzz of someone else’s conversation rang in his ears.  
  
“...and I am the _third_ prettiest girl my mother has ever seen,” Miss Bennet said, finishing some tale she had been telling Fitzwilliam. “But ordinal numbers have never been her strength. Sometimes, I suspect it is very likely that the sixth prettiest girl has more beauty than me.”  
  
Fitzwilliam made some reply or another.  
  
“I fear the curtain shall rise soon and I must return to my seat before it does,” Miss Bennet said. She turned to Darcy. “I have come on an errand from my aunt which I shall not fail to complete: Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Barry hopes that you do not have any very pressing engagements after the play for her cook shall have a lovely soup prepared when we get home and she begs that you shall come and partake of it.”  
  
“I thank you for the invitation.” What must be said always seemed to come out easier than what he cared to say. “I shall be delighted.”  
  
“Your entire party is welcome, too, of course,” Miss Elizabeth added, her eye darting to the colonel.  
  
“I _do_ have a pressing engagement, sad to say,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “I am just come from Lady Metcalfe’s box and she issued to me the very same invitation.”  
  
Miss Elizabeth shrugged, curtseyed, and hurried out of the box.  
  
“Lady Metcalfe invited you for soup?” Darcy asked, incredulous.   
  
“Of course not. But now you are to visit Miss Peacock without me, and for God’s sake, Darcy, consider actually _speaking_ to her.”  
  
***  
Elizabeth woke the next morning to the sight of a maid unpacking her trunk. Her aunt threw open the curtains, flooding the bedroom with bright mid-morning sun. Elizabeth squinted, feeling the beginning of a headache come on her. It was a fitting punishment.  
  
Mr. Darcy had been asked to the house for soup. He must receive such invitations infrequently, for he did not appear to know when a guest ought to leave. When Elizabeth withdrew at 2 AM, pleading an invented migraine, he was still there. How Mrs. Barry had got him to actually leave, she could not guess.  
  
“What is going on? Why is Sally unpacking?”  
  
“Come now, time to get up,” Mrs. Barry said. “Mr. Darcy invited you to go for a drive to-day.”  
  
“Did he?” No doubt the invitation was cajoled from him by Mrs. Barry. “I am afraid it cannot be. I am to go home.”  
  
“I have already seen Jane off,” Mrs. Barry answered, busying herself about the room.   
  
“What?” Elizabeth cried. Jane would not leave without her.  
  
“There is nothing here for Jane. Better she gets back to her young man before he decides he likes one of those Lucases better. The pretension of that family! Jane understands Mr. Darcy is an opportunity a lady cannot afford to squander. Why, I sent her off at least an hour ago.”  
  
“But,” Elizabeth could hardly form the words for her protests, “without saying good-bye?”  
  
“Enough of that, Elizabeth. It’s as if you think you will never see her again! I was not about to let her wake you. What will Mr. Darcy think if he sees you with circles under your eyes?”  
  
“I would hope he would reconsider his habit of staying in someone else’s drawing room all night!” Her mind raced. “And what of my mother and father? They expected me home to-day!”  
  
“They have four other daughters. They can spare one. Jane will tell them everything when she arrives. Now, let’s get you up and have a bit of breakfast!”  
  
***  
Rotten Row was much like a private ball. Once the conceit that everyone present was a person worthy of being known had been established, the chaperonage of young ladies was relaxed. Despite the ever-present company, a young lady may speak in functional privacy with the gentleman of her choice without fear for her reputation.  
  
Miss Bennet arrived at Hyde Park at midday, her aunt willingly relinquishing her to Mr. Darcy’s care for a drive down the bridle path. He was surprised at Miss Bennet’s modesty. She appeared disinclined to leave Mrs. Barry for something as innocent as a drive in the park in an open carriage. Should a gentleman attempt to abscond with her on an open road, Darcy would applaud her hesitance. But there was nothing to fear on Rotten Row but the chilly October air.  
  
Darcy handed Miss Bennet into the curricle and they set off at a sedate pace. Such a carriage was built for speed, but he was not interested in impressing Miss Bennet with a fast drive that would be over too soon. She took in everything around them. The people, the carriages, the park in autumn. Darcy was surprised when, instead of an observation, Miss Bennet said, “I must apologise for my aunt.”  
  
The woman _did_ talk too much, but Darcy could not remember Mrs. Barry doing anything offensive. “Whatever for?”  
  
“She has been dominating your time,” Miss Bennet said. “Mrs. Barry has been trying to have you all to herself when I know you must have other friends and engagements.”  
  
“I would always choose one good friend over many engagements.”  
  
Miss Bennet raised her eyebrows. “But she is not your good friend. You told me yourself you had not known her before the ball.”  
  
“Are you suggesting that a friendship of a lasting duration cannot be formed at a ball?” True, it was not how Darcy himself would have pictured meeting a creature as delightful as Miss Bennet, but it was the generally accepted purpose of a dance.  
  
She flushed. “It would not do for you to be deceived. My uncle came from one of the _lesser_ branches of the Barry family. Should you be looking for an introduction to the greater Barrys, we cannot help you. I myself have never met them.”  
  
Stranded in Hertfordshire as she so often was, that did not surprise Darcy. “In that case, I shall be pleased to introduce you.”  
  
“You know my relations better than I!” she cried. “How embarrassing!”  
  
He did not credit that she was embarrassed. The flush of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes and the theatrical cry seemed to indicate she found the intelligence rather diverting. “Meeting many people is one of the benefits of spending time in the establishments of the city.”  
  
Miss Bennet smirked. “Says the man who just confessed moments ago to preferring the company of one person to establishments.”  
  
“Are we not all social creatures to one extent or another? I merely meant I prefer the society of particular persons over constant amusements. That, I hope, has not been construed by you as a general dislike of anyone.”   
  
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said with feigned gravitas, “I should not suggest anything except that you have very high standards.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Tell me, what must a person do to meet them?”  
  
A strange question, from a woman who had met so many of his friends. She could not question Bingley’s worthiness. She appeared to enjoy Fitzwilliam’s willingness to set her up for stories and clever bits of observation. Wilkes deserved some of her fondness for hosting a costume ball and allowing her to come on only the word of Mrs. Barry. “I trust you are looking for requirements beyond good breeding?” Darcy asked.   
  
“I am now.”  
  
“Nothing unusual. I appreciate a well-formed mind and engaging manners. And, of course, there is something to be said about anyone willing to be pleased.”  
  
“Did you know,” Miss Bennet asked, “that puts to mind people very different from yourself?”  
  
“It had not been my intention to describe myself, but now I wonder what you mean.”  
  
“You are unwilling to be pleased, yet you want others to be so.”  
  
“How have I acquired such a reputation?”  
  
She did not answer immediately. “You are very fastidious,” Miss Bennet confessed finally. He knew he was. He would not deny it. Miss Bennet seemed almost embarrassed to accuse him of it, though. Then she added, “In fact, I suspect it was _you_ that insulted Colonel Elephant’s costume!”  
  
He smiled. “It did not look much like an elephant.”  
  
“And you did not look much like a cat!”  
  
“As I recall, you thought I was a crow.”  
  
Miss Bennet shrugged. “You were dressed in black.”  
  
“Do you suggest crows are the only black creatures upon this earth?”  
  
“If you were to look at the legs of a bird, you will see that they are a different colour than their feathers.”  
  
“A crow with white feet would be an unusual sight.”  
  
“No more unusual than a gentleman dressed as a cat!”  
  
“I am certain there are many more men with young sisters than there are crows with white feet, just as there are more young ladies with green gowns and feathers than there are female peacocks.”  
  
“Did you know you speak more when we are not with my aunt?”  
  
“She does talk a great deal. I confess, I half-expected that to be what you wished to apologise for.”  
  
“Oh, I would never apologise for that. I think it a great kindness that she takes the burden of speaking off of you. I would never do that for you myself.”  
  
“Nor I you.” Darcy looked out toward the road of ahead of them. “In fact, I think I shall require you continue speaking to me for sometime yet.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by FeliceB and Ms Pimprenelle.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Bennet disdained trouble of any sort. The only path he cared to tread was the one of least resistance, and he could be seen wandering from it but rarely. The world had supplied him with few inducements to take on any discomfort. The happiness of his two eldest daughters might suffice, but it just as often did not. Jane and Elizabeth were considered by their father (and, he therefore assumed, all the world) to be sensible young ladies possessing well-formed minds and an ability to regulate themselves. In Mr. Bennet’s experience, such a combination of traits was uncommon. He could not help but value who among his children displayed them. Particularly, he favoured his little Lizzy, who beyond being simply good company, had a wit and cynicism about her that made her inherent brightness sparkle all the more by comparison.  
  
Yet on occasions when his paternal affection was forced to do battle with the general indolence that best characterised him, the outcome was always uncertain. Were Mr. Bennet to remove Elizabeth from the sphere of a purported suitor, his wife would be angry. His preference was to have Elizabeth at home, but there would be no peace at Longbourn when Mrs. Bennet was in an uproar. Was Mr. Bennet willing to suffer the furore of his wife for the return of his daughter?  
  
Elizabeth suspected she would have to fight for the right to go home.  
  
Willing to fight, she was.  
  
With every passing day, the necessity to get out of London grew. There were no indignities Mrs. Barry would not subject her to in the name of securing Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth had been pushed into his box at the theatre. She had been bundled into his curricle. Mrs. Barry and Mr. Darcy each claimed their acquaintance to be recent, but it was impossible to overlook that every invitation that arrived at the doorstep of one was issued by someone who _happened_ to also be a great friend of the other. Every host at every dinner seemed in on the vast conspiracy to ensure that Miss Bennet and Mr. Darcy were seated next to one another.    
  
She found the dinners to be the worst.  
  
When the ladies withdrew from the dining room and the men stayed behind to smoke, drink, and speak of the things they believed women incapable of comprehending, Elizabeth should have had a reprieve. At the table, she could not escape conversation with Mr. Darcy but in the drawing room, she was free to move and speak as she wished. In the absence of the men, however, the women dropped all pretence that they were unaware of a courtship. The only topic of interest to anyone was forwarding the match between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennet.  
  
Elizabeth had learnt to especially hate a particular phrase much in vogue at these meetings: _“I have never seen Darcy so besotted!”_ What manner of man was he that a few dances, a drive, and polite dinner conversation amounted to such an extraordinary degree of attention? He was a regular visitor at the homes of his friends. Elizabeth had seen him dance with Miss Bingley in Meryton. He was not a man who shunned the company of women.   
  
For her part, Mrs. Barry quite adored that common refrain and she answered it with one of her own: “He cannot see my little Elizabeth often enough!” Every lady present would then be invited to agree, and they all would. Mr. Darcy’s courtship, it seemed, was a matter decided by a committee of women with no interference from the man himself, his opinions, or his intentions. He was of no concern.  
  
Mrs. Barry resembled her brother in looks. Sometimes the lilt of her words so closely matched the cadence of Mr. Bennet that Elizabeth could hear the history of a brother and sister who had grown up together. Elizabeth had always knows she was her father’s favourite. She considered her position adequate recompense for anything life had failed to provide. But whatever similarities her father and aunt had, affection for Elizabeth had not been one of them. Mrs. Barry had not cared much until the day Mr. Darcy walked into her parlour. Any attachment she professed now was soured by its source.  
  
With all of this to contend with, Elizabeth wrote to her father asking that he bring her home.  
  
She must go home.  
  
Before the committee convinced her, too, of Mr. Darcy’s exceptional preference.  
  
***  
The days of lore and spooks were long past. Rational men no longer believed in ghosts or the fae. Yet, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself increasingly haunted by a sprite that lurked at the edges of his vision and patrolled the corners of his mind.  
  
The first encounter, she had been a bit of a lark. A pretty thing—near as he could tell with a mask obscuring her face—dressed up as a peacock. Fitzwilliam had asked her to dance with little more in mind than laughing at his cousin over it later. Darcy was too quiet to be affable, and fastidious besides. Such qualities had the bad luck to be judged as pride among those who did not know him. Miss Peacock was just the thing for Darcy.  
  
Given the society where he had met her and the connections she could boast, for a few hours the colonel had been pleased to think Miss Peacock might be just the thing for _himself._ She _was_ pretty and, even better, clever. Life as a younger son had trained him too well to accept deprivation. Although Fitzwilliam knew it was likely a danger to his own prospects, he had nevertheless allowed Darcy to take the first turn at courting. His cousin was well equipped to capture the fancy of a young lady with his looks and his wealth. However, Darcy’s poor manners meant he was unlikely to keep the lady’s favour unless money was all she wanted, and his own rigorous standards all but promised he would lose interest before the end of the first visit. To Fitzwilliam’s surprise, Darcy was only more charmed by Miss Peacock with each meeting. She never seemed to burst free of whatever illusion of fae delight Darcy had crafted. Even with the revelation that her connections were not what they had initially supposed, she retained her hold over Darcy. Her name was on the lips of everyone who knew him.  
  
Fitzwilliam felt a bit haunted by it all. He had not Darcy’s freedom to arrange his life just as he liked. Darcy had probably not gone three days without seeing Miss Peacock since they met. The colonel could not keep himself precisely to the circles of the people he most wished to see like Darcy could. But even without seeing her intentionally, she was never very far. At a dinner. At the theatre. Being rhapsodised over by Darcy.  
  
Or at a rout.   
  
The entire house was filled with bodies and not one of them was still. The crush stayed in perpetual motion, pressing on each other as their shared momentum propelled them from room to room. Elbows were thrown. Gowns were torn. The stuff of to-morrow’s gossip was made and Colonel Fitzwilliam had to look twice before he was certain the lady he thought he saw was indeed Miss Peacock. She appeared quite out of her depth.  
  
Grateful a rout was one of the few amusements of refined society that smiled upon shoving one’s fellow man aside, Colonel Fitzwilliam moved towards her. “Miss Peacock!”  
  
She started upon hearing the sobriquet and looked his way with evident relief. Such pleasure was short-lived. She had turned her attention away from protecting her gown from the crush for only a moment, but that was enough for it to have been trod upon. Miss Peacock scowled at the back of the offending gentleman.  
  
“A fine amusement, routs,” the colonel observed.  
  
“Forgive me if I disagree!”  
  
“Should you like to get out of the crush? I know of a small alcove where other dissenters are taking shelter.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Careful to stay a step ahead of Miss Peacock, Fitzwilliam cleared a path, urging her to hurry after him before the crush moved in again and the means to move through it in peace disappeared.  
  
Once ushered into the alcove, a becoming blush adorned the face of Miss Peacock. The group of dissenters was small and she had not failed to notice Fitzwilliam had delivered her directly to Darcy.  
  
His cousin smiled warmly. “Miss Bennet.”  
  
She gave a sharp nod of her head. “Mr. Darcy.”  
  
Seeing that she was safe in the shelter of the alcove, Mr. Darcy introduced her to his companions. One of those, a Miss Watson, asked, “Do you dislike a rout, Miss Bennet?”  
  
“This is my first,” Miss Peacock replied, “and so far, I do not see the point.”  
  
The other occupant, a fellow called Watson, said, “The point is to be the stuff of to-morrow’s gossip.”  
  
“Surely there are intrigues enough in Town without pushing people into the way of bruises and torn gowns!”  
  
“News travels quickly,” Watson said, “and it loses its interest rather more quickly. Society must always have some new _faux pas_ to discuss, and where there are none, it falls on us to create them.”  
  
“I did not agree to sacrifice myself to such an ignoble cause,” Miss Peacock countered.  
  
“I quite agree with you,” Miss Watson said. “I should not be here myself were it not Harriet’s house—my sister, Mrs. Hubbard, that is. If I may be so bold as to ask, why did you come?”  
  
“I am currently the guest of my aunt. She assures me she will not miss a rout for all the world, though between us, I do not think she has attended any more of them than I.”  
  
“A rout does appear to be an amusement for the young,” Darcy said. Fitzwilliam had half-feared Darcy intended to let another opportunity to flirt with Miss Peacock slip away. For all his fluttering around her, he rarely made good use of the opportunities he amassed.  
  
Watson immediately interjected, “What do you mean, Darcy?”  
  
Seemingly unperturbed that the person he surely wished to meet him in conversation had been preventing from replying by Watson, Darcy said, “I mean something as preeminently foolish as a rout is behaviour I can more easily attribute to youth.”  
  
Miss Peacock was not one to let someone else prevent her from having her share. Before Watson could steal Darcy’s attention for himself again, she said “I believe our elders always wish for their share of foolishness.”  
  
Darcy shifted his entire body towards Miss Peacock. “Indeed they do. I would suggest, however, that when the young are foolish, they are more likely to attempt a defence by citing their age and relative inexperience in the world, and refuse to accept whatever censure and embarrassment they have earned. The appearance of foolishness must always be multiplied where there is experience enough to present a proper deterrent or prevent claims of ignorance.”  
  
Miss Peacock raised her brow. “I would accuse you of cruelty to my aunt had I not known what great friends you are.”  
  
Darcy’s fae had a sweetness about her. Fitzwilliam was left with the impression the words should have stung, but they had not. Still, he felt perhaps some intervention might suit Darcy. “I suspect he intended any cruelty to be at the expense of our own aunt, a grand old dame much celebrated for her foolishness.”  
  
Miss Peacock’s eyes danced. “She sounds lovely. I should like to meet her.”  
  
“You understand the point of a rout more than you profess if cataloguing human folly is how you should like to spend your evening,” Fitzwilliam said. “That is what a rout is all about.”  
  
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I like follies much better when they are not a danger to myself and may be observed from a distance.”  
  
“Darcy feels the same.”  
  
“Concerned for my safety?”  
  
“I trust any gentleman would be,” Darcy interjected, “but I think it likely you are attributing virtues to me that Fitzwilliam did not intend.”  
  
“I _do_ get the impression the colonel enjoys teasing you, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Peacock said neatly, “but I do not believe you are an innocent party. You have had your share of teasing him as well.”  
  
“If I may say a word in my own defence, to clarify my point,” Fitzwilliam said, “I meant Darcy _also_ prefers to watch the foolishness of others from the safety of his own immunity.”  
  
 _“Immunity!”_ Miss Peacock cried. “I do not much like the sound of that! We must all be fools at one time or another! If I am to laugh at the follies of others, they must have their share of laughing at me.”  
  
“Men,” Watson spoke up, “generally wish to avoid ladies laughing at them.”  
  
“Well, I suppose I can allow it if Mr. Darcy _avoids_ the ridiculous as best he can as long as he accepts he cannot avoid it in perpetuity.”  
  
“I do not deny it,” Darcy answered.   
  
“But you notice and catalogue the defects of others,” Fitzwilliam said.  
  
“He is a studious sort,” Miss Peacock said wryly. “You ought to commend him for it.”  
  
“Commend him? Why, Miss Peacock, you yourself told me the very evening we met that you had no use for critical people, but now you say it is commendable?”  
  
“Colonel, it is always commendable to study in the name of self-improvement. Should Mr. Darcy make it his study to evade being found ridiculous, then he must catalogue the nonsense of others. If you choose to make yourself ridiculous and therefore the ideal candidate to study (and I think you do), you are doing him a kindness and cannot ask him to overlook it.”  
  
“I see you are set against me, and will do whatever you must to defend Darcy.”  
  
“Not at all; he is not in need of defending.”  
  
“I had not considered myself such. I thank you, not for your defence, but for your dismissal of its necessity,” Darcy said.  
  
Miss Watson sighed. “Why should Harriet hold a rout? I would much prefer a ball!”  
  
Personally, Fitzwilliam was inclined to agree. A variety of partners and steps was more interesting than hiding from a rout. But at a ball, Miss Peacock would have to fly from partner to partner, never able to land by Darcy. If he were determined that her hold over him should remain secure, an evening he was able to spend freely by her side was the better circumstance. And if they disdained the same things and found amusement at the same things, all the better.  
  
***  
The conscientious parent ensured for their child the most complete education their position in life allowed. Education itself must encompass a multitude of lessons chosen without reference made to the talent or inclination of the student. Where there was genuine interest in a subject, genius was sure to follow. Where there were neither, the righteous goal of mental improvement was transformed, becoming instead a punishment to the student and those in her orbit.  
  
Miss Stuart was one of those young ladies pressed into playing the pianoforte before anyone and everyone despite her lack of skill or enjoyment. She did not care for the instrument, and it was unreasonable to suppose that further practice could teach her delight when ten years’ fruitless effort had not. Her father, however, was determined to have her play, and that was that. To be invited to the Stuarts’ for tea was to be invited to listen to Miss Stuart abuse a composer. Darcy declined these invitations as often as he could, citing a prior engagement on the evening in question. His time was in enough demand that he could generally find one later.  
  
Everyone, even the Miss Stuarts of the world, enjoyed listening to music. Darcy’s sister had taught him to love music. She ferreted out every bit of hidden brilliancy in compositions both simple and complex, displayed the depth of feeling written into each piece, and had completely changed his thinking. Before Georgiana had taught him better, Darcy considered music an amusement. Now, he saw it as she did: an art necessary if the soul of man is to flourish.  
  
Darcy accepted the invitation to tea at the Stuarts’ in the hope that Miss Bennet would also be there. When he had last dined with the Wilkeses, the elder Mrs. Wilkes, Mrs. Stuart and Mrs. Barry had cloistered themselves in a corner of the drawing room. His gamble was rewarded. Miss Bennet was also present, sipping tea and respectfully listening as Miss Stuart attempted to play the instrument instead of what she clearly wished to do, which was kick it.  
  
As soon as the performance ended and the guests began to mill about the room, Darcy was at Miss Bennet’s side.  
  
“Do you play?” Only after he asked did Darcy notice how long he had gone without doing so. He could not presume Miss Bennet’s parents held views on education as unyielding as the Stuarts. It was perfectly plausible that she had never learnt. For his part, Darcy was too fond of music to fathom marriage to a woman that did not play.  
  
“A little,” Miss Bennet answered, wrinkling her nose, “and very ill.”  
  
Disappointment lanced through him. His attentions toward Miss Bennet had been marked, yes, but they were of short duration yet. Should he withdraw as a suitor now, they would both be faultless. To find a woman more beautiful than Miss Bennet would be easy. He could even find one that performed with skill and panache on the pianoforte and the harp if he liked. And another man would come for Miss Bennet, one who would appreciate her sparkling eyes and expressive face without thinking he had sacrificed something he ought not.  
  
Darcy flushed. He swallowed the bile such an image beckoned. The thought of another man at her side was insupportable. And—that neck. That nose, so bashful! Her dark eyes, her glossy hair… _Could_ he find a woman more alluring? Perhaps not.  
  
“Do you sing?”  
  
“A little,” she said again, this time with a wry smile. “And very ill.”  
  
“You assess yourself harshly.” Darcy had no reason to disbelieve Miss Bennet’s account of her abilities. She was not given to self-effacement. If she said she did not play well, then she must not. But he thought it more to the purpose for any young lady to overstate her skills when speaking with a suitor.    
  
“Which you can say,” Miss Bennet replied, “only because you have not heard me. Should I be invited to play before company such as this, I would certainly refuse. You must be accustomed to hearing only the best performances. We have spoken before on the avoidance of ridicule, and _I_ should not care to expose myself to what must follow my playing.”  
  
He wondered what she had heard others say about Miss Stuart.  
  
“I forfeit my right to reply,” Darcy said. “Pray take my turn in the conversation and supply the answer that most amuses you.”  
  
Miss Bennet laughed. That was a melody in itself. “I am so easy to amuse! All right, I have chosen your reply.”  
  
What madness it would be to forsake her! The man who searched for a musician to be his bride was a fool. Married women were eager to end their maidenly occupations. Miss Bennet was clever. She had trapped him. Had he pressed her to play, he would be showing a willingness to expose her. Had he accepted her demurral, the concession that she must be as ill-qualified as she claimed was itself an insult.  
  
“And what reply am I to make?”  
  
“I am not going to tell you!” she cried. “I see now that you wish for me to put some great bit of cleverness into your lips so that you might claim the adulations for making such a reply. No, sir, I shall not oblige you.”  
  
He would have liked to know how Miss Bennet herself escaped the trap she had lain. “Very well. However, if we are to carry on our conversation, then you must make a response to my reply.”  
  
Miss Bennet shrugged. “Perhaps I do not wish to continue that conversation. Your reply satisfied me, and I am ready to return to my aunt.”  
  
“Should you run to your aunt without saying another word to me, does that not suggest my reply caused you offence?”  
  
“Under other circumstances,” she said slowly, “it might. But you specifically instructed me to choose that which _amused_ me most. While I do find to laugh at a hurt is the best cure, that was not your intention just now. I was to choose for you something clever and pleasing, and I have done so.”  
  
“Yet I may not know what.”  
  
She smiled. “No.”  
  
“And you shall not provide me with clues by making a reply of your own?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Miss Bennet, I fear we are at an impasse.”  
  
She nodded sagely. “We are, which is why I shall return to my aunt.”  
  
Miss Bennet strode away. Her shoulders were straight, her steps deliberate. She was making a great show of walking away. Darcy waited the span of half a breath before following her to the sofa where Mrs. Barry and some other women were sitting.  
  
On their approach, Mrs. Barry stood. “Elizabeth! Come now, you must have a turn on the instrument.”  
  
She took Miss Bennet by the arm and marched her towards the pianoforte. Miss Bennet looked over her shoulder—back at Darcy. She jerked slightly with surprise, then smiled ruefully. He understood—she had not been asked to play. She had been _instructed_. She could not escape it.  
  
As Darcy expected, Miss Bennet was an honest young lady and her account of herself was truthful. She did not play with proficiency. Darcy’s trained ears could hear her struggling to keep time. Every so often, there was a discordant note he knew she had hit by mistake. She sang. Her voice was clear and she knew her limitations. Very high notes she pitched lower, very long notes she cut shorter. She did not know when she was supposed to breathe. But she played without a hint of artifice. She was not seeking to impress anyone—not even him! She simply did what she had been asked to do.  
  
After two songs, her aunt allowed Miss Bennet to leave the instrument to the next young lady. She looked towards him again, gazing at Darcy with knowing eyes. Then she shrugged and turned away. She glided across the room and sat with Miss Stuart. The young lady at the bench now, Miss Gilbert, had the reputation of being a skilled performer. Miss Bennet and Miss Stuart turned their whole attention to the performance, listening with obvious respect and attention.  
  
Darcy heard none of it.  
  
He was not precisely pleased by Miss Bennet, not precisely intrigued. _Fascination_ did not quite do the feeling justice.  
  
He was in love.  
  
He surprised himself, being in love so soon, knowing still so little about her.  
  
Darcy realised he had been staring when she raised her eyes and caught his gaze. Miss Bennet again wrinkled her nose. He smiled, and she looked away.  
  
He wondered about the words she chose for him. Something to please her, something she could not answer just yet. Something a suitor should say when a lady disparages her own self, but to refute it would be known to them both as dishonesty.  
  
Under those constraints, Darcy thought _I love you_ would work nicely.  


	4. Chapter 4

Jane’s letters were sufficiently characteristic of their author. She wrote nothing that could be deemed cynical or critical. Long in the habit of wishing to please and be pleased, Jane’s vision of Longbourn depicted everyone to their very best advantage. Mary was serious and studious, as always. Kitty and Lydia were spirited, but well-meaning. Mrs. Bennet was delighted by Mr. Bingley, and nothing could gratify Jane more than her family’s approval of the dear gentleman. Of Mr. Bennet, Jane wrote little.  
  
Well! Elizabeth was savvy enough to read between the lines. It hardly need be said that Elizabeth’s every entreaty to go home was being ignored, so Jane did  _not_  say so. From her mother’s letters, Elizabeth knew Mrs. Bennet had embraced each asinine rumour about Mr. Darcy that Mrs. Barry had sent her way. The assurance that two of her daughters were being courted by eligible gentlemen had probably produced in Mrs. Bennet a sort of serenity never before seen. Evidently, her father had elected to not throw everything back into chaos by separating the London lovers. Had he sacrificed anyone else, Elizabeth could not even have judged him for it.   
  
 _“Your mother!_  
  
The weeks in London had passed largely without a scornful word said about Mrs. Bennet by her sister. Their habitual discord had been set aside so that they might trade letters delighting in and detailing Mr. Darcy’s suitability. It was unreasonable to suppose decades of dislike could be overturned by the introduction of one wealthy man into their lives, but Elizabeth was nevertheless momentarily stunned by her aunt’s outburst.  
  
A tirade followed, wherein all the warmly cultivated disdain of the past was reinvigorated. “I cannot understand that woman and nor do I care to! If Mr. Bingley were to forsake Jane over such a thing it is far better to see the back of him, I say! Darcy is worth ten of him!”  
  
Mrs. Barry continued for some time. She found every possible permutation of the same criticisms of the same people without adding any useful context for her poor audience. No letter that had reached Elizabeth’s hands, from any quarter, had expressed even the slightest dissatisfaction with Mr. Bingley. That the latest news suggested some sort of controversy was unfathomable. And what was Darcy to any of it?   
  
It was not until Mrs. Barry's repetitious reprobation lost some of its lustre that she read the letter, which had produced such ravings, in its entirety to her niece. Its author was Mrs. Bennet and she had rambled for four sides of paper regarding an upcoming ball at Netherfield.   
  
Lost among the extraneous bits of interest regarding how the ball came to be (Lydia) and when it was to be held (the fourth of December) and the soup (white, of course) and the reason anyone would actually wish to hold a ball (Jane) was the handiwork of Elizabeth’s dear, devious father.   
  
Mrs. Bennet wrote that Mr. Bennet had sadly sighed and shook his head picturing Elizabeth’s absence from this ball. At first, she’d thought he was being silly, for though Elizabeth  _was_  his favourite, it would be stupid to suppose she was not having a much better time in London, and with a better class of people. But then Mr. Bennet had explained it was not that at all. Mr. Bingley knew Jane well enough to know how dearly she loved Elizabeth, and how Elizabeth loved her. They knew all of each other’s secrets better than anyone. Should Elizabeth not attend a ball they all know to be thrown in Jane’s honour, how could Mr. Bingley interpret this but that Jane had confided in Elizabeth some degree of disinterest in the relationship?  _They_  knew nothing of the kind had happened, but Mr. Bingley did not. What could he do but cease his attentions to Jane immediately? It had been imagining Jane so disappointed that had made him sigh.  
  
And so, Mrs. Bennet insisted that Elizabeth must come home immediately.  
  
Mrs. Barry did not appreciate her brother’s machinations. Privately, Elizabeth could admit her aunt was not all wrong. Mrs. Bennet’s request was absurd. From a purely practical vantage ground, Darcy was the greater acquisition. To risk losing him in the name of securing Bingley was foolish. But Mrs. Bennet’s understanding of the world had never been great. Perhaps she did not see the discrepancy. Mrs. Barry did, and she knew her brother well enough to know he did. But the only person he needed to convince was Mrs. Bennet, and he had done so.  
  
Elizabeth was sure her father had it all tied up nicely. If Mrs. Bennet  _had_  questioned favouring Bingley to Darcy, Mr. Bennet must have talked until she thought she understood, even if he had said not a word worth understanding. Elizabeth was pleased with her father, pleased that her own wish of going home was finally to be answered, pleased by her sister’s exemplary young man and his methods of showing preference. With freedom in sight, Elizabeth finally allowed herself the privilege of laughing at the presumption Darcy would ever look at her.  
  
But by the time her trunks were packed and the carriage arrangements settled, Elizabeth’s amusement had twisted itself up. Mrs. Barry was happy living in Town. She was the sort of person suited to noise and bustle and being pulled in many directions at once. The country bored her too much to visit. Mr. Barry had left her money enough for security and comfort, but what of loneliness? She was a widow. She had no children of her own. She had barely known Elizabeth before her nieces arrived for the costume ball, yet Mrs. Barry had not hesitated to throw her all into the hunt for a husband.   
  
In the end, Elizabeth left London with the unshakable feeling that her aunt had been ill-used, and wishing they had spent their time together differently.  
  
***  
They were friends.  
  
Somehow, she forgot.  
  
The first time Elizabeth had ever heard Mr. Darcy’s name, it had been in the company of Mr. Bingley. Darcy had come into the neighbourhood as the guest of his friend, attended one event, earned the disdain of everyone, and disappeared. Mr. Bingley had mourned the loss, assumed everyone felt the same, and Elizabeth had laughed. To think anyone could  _miss_  such a man!  
  
They were friends.  
  
She had not known it at the time, but the business that called Darcy back to London was the Wilkeses’ costume ball. He had not wished to go, but the insinuation that the young Mrs. Wilkes would be offended by his absence had been enough for Darcy to hie to London.   
  
In Town, Elizabeth had learnt to expect a different context for Mr. Darcy. He was everywhere. Every show, every dinner, every conversation seemed to include him in some manner or another. Mr. Bingley was not a part of this new world. He remained anchored to Jane, back at home, where Elizabeth belonged. Darcy meant London. Darcy meant the farce of a courtship. Darcy meant strangers who were all thoroughly convinced they knew Elizabeth’s future better than she did.  
  
They were friends.  
  
He had left Netherfield to attend the Wilkeses’ ball.   
  
Why had she never thought he would leave London to attend Bingley’s?  
  
They were, after all, _friends._  
  
Such good friends were they that when Mr. Bingley called at Longbourn the second morning after Elizabeth’s arrival, he was accompanied by Mr. Darcy.   
  
Mrs. Barry had always known Darcy in the context of London. There, he was a rich man who owned a far off estate. Mr. Barry’s connections left his widow on the precipice of Darcy’s circle, friendly with the mothers and aunts of the young people he associated with. He was single, handsome, and already in control of his family’s considerable resources.   
  
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had never forgotten the Darcy who so briefly occupied their inconsequential little neighbourhood as a guest. It had not been Mrs. Bennet’s poor understanding of the world that convinced her to abandon the pursuit of Darcy in the name of securing Bingley. It had been the assurance that Darcy, too, would be attending the ball.  
  
Truly, her father was more cunning than Elizabeth realised.  
  
The location of the courtship had changed, but nothing else. Elizabeth’s every move was still overseen by a matron determined to see her wed Darcy. The poor man was still lured into parlours where the entire company conspired to restrict his only hope of conversation or entertainment to her. He was scarcely permitted to speak to anyone else.  
  
At least their current circumstance provided something for Elizabeth to talk about. “Are you looking forward to Mr. Bingley’s ball?”  
  
“I believe it shall suit my purposes admirably, yes. Bingley could not have timed it better.”  
  
“Your purposes! What an odd way to speak of a ball!”  
  
“Is it?” Darcy smiled. “Do you suppose balls are typically held without design?”  
  
Her voice low, Elizabeth said, “I know the rumour is that Mr. Bingley is hosting this ball as a compliment to my sister, but I admit we ought not assign motives where none have been confessed. Mr. Bingley is very fond of dancing. Why, I remember when we all met—at the assembly in Meryton—he was angry when it closed for he could have danced more.”  
  
Darcy’s smile did not fade. He simply inclined his head in a single, slow nod. “Then we can agree that a gentleman’s purpose at a ball is to dance with a lady.”  
  
“ _Most_  men, yes, but I know  _you_  do not care for it.”  
  
He shrugged. “You know me too well to really think so. Where there is a lady with whom I wish to dance, I do not hesitate to stand up with her.”  
  
“I have never known you to behave so! You have told me yourself that you dance as infrequently as possible.”  
  
“And you told me yourself you do not wish to assign men motives of your own invention. I have never said I choose to dance infrequently, only that I prefer a partner I have some knowledge of to dancing with strangers.”  
  
“And you anticipate that at this ball there shall be a lady you have  _knowledge_  of?”  
  
He flushed and, rather incoherently, said something Elizabeth chose to mean that he wished she would not speak like that with her mother in the room. His discomfort left her in no doubt of his purpose. Who was this young lady he desired? It could not be Miss Bingley, for he had not stayed at Netherfield to be near her. She could not have been in London, for his friends would not have mistaken the object of Darcy’s matrimonial ambitions had she been present.   
  
How unpleasant it would all be for Mrs. Barry when she learnt the truth!  
  
Once Darcy regained his composure, he used it to say, “Allow me to assure you that there is one young lady among my acquaintance whom I hold in the highest esteem.”  
  
Elizabeth chewed on the inside of her cheek, and then smiled to herself. Darcy  _was_  in love. She had always known the idea of his having any intentions toward herself was absurd. He was free to pursue anyone he wished. She had never believed he wanted  _her._  
  
Still, she could not resist the call to tease a besotted gentleman. “You have planned a tedious evening. If you have only one lady who suits your exacting tastes, what shall you do once you have danced with her?”  
  
“You are quite right; my only hope is that she will grant me two sets, though I fear she may not like the distinction.”  
  
Elizabeth laughed. “Young ladies are uniformly fond of being distinguished.”  
  
His smile returned. “Then we are in accord.”  
  
She blinked. “Accord?”  
  
“You will grant me two sets and not ask me to be content with one?”  
  
A lifetime habit of accepting any and all invitations to dance moved Elizabeth to agree before exerting any energy on the contemplation of the question itself. Darcy appeared quite relieved by her answer—he began speaking of the ball as a compliment to her sister and his concern that she should not like her distinction to exceed Jane’s.  
  
“Sir,” Elizabeth interjected, “I am not certain I understood you properly.”  
  
“I would not wish to cause you embarrassment or be the source of any trouble with your sister.”  
  
Coldness crept up her spine and settled in her mind. Confusion, followed closely by suspicion. Both sensations were revolting to someone so unused to questioning herself. Darcy was plainly interested in a young lady, and the only rational conclusion to draw from his request was that  _she_  was the young lady in question. Everything she knew about him demanded that such a supposition be rejected, but if she did so, she had no other conclusions with which to replace it. Elizabeth fell back on the only defense she could muster. “I was only teasing.”  
  
“Yes, I know.”  
  
None of the anxiety plaguing her seemed to touch him. How could he be so assured after throwing everything into chaos? “And you…?”  
  
“You were asking your teasing questions and I answered in the same manner, but you know I did not come to Hertfordshire to see anyone else.”  
  
Mrs. Barry must have made him come.  
  
No.  
  
Mrs. Barry did not have the power to force an independent young man to come all this way.  
  
“Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said firmly, “is your friend. Why else would you have come?”  
  
The satisfaction was chased from Darcy’s smile. His lips were still upturned, but with a sort of skeptical confusion. “You left London so abruptly. I did not know when you were to return.”  
  
The simplicity of his statement prevented her from guessing at subtext or blaming it all on some misguided notion of polite behaviour. It was ludicrous to require more clarification than he had given, but the stubborn part of her was awake and refusing to accept what she was hearing. “You came here for me?”  
  
Incredulous, he said, “Yes, of course.”  
  
No one made Darcy’s decisions for him.  
  
He was not searching her every word for a hidden meaning.  
  
His answers were easy and deliberate. They came to him quickly, nothing about them implying an internal struggle or an understanding that he was overthrowing everything she thought she knew about both him and the nature of their friendship.  
  
“Why?”  
  
His eyes darted around the room. Darcy licked his lips. In a low tone, impossible to be overheard, he said, with great solemnity, “My regard for you demands it.”  
  
How many hours had Elizabeth spent blushing over Mrs. Barry’s shameless, presumptuous matchmaking? How many evenings had she spent trapped beside Darcy without ever doubting he was as innocent as she? How many words and looks and touches had she disregarded?  
  
How blind! How absurd!  
  
A man did not linger late into the night because he did not know he ought to leave after supper. A man did not drive a young lady down Rotten Row because her aunt wished for him to do so. The committee of women who were all agreed that Darcy was besotted were his  _friends._ They knew him well enough to know how he would behave when he fell in love.  
  
And she?  
  
She had thought his first impression was the only one that could matter. She had given greater weight to the very first words he had ever spoken about her—not even _to_  her, but  _about_  her—than a month of dances, dinners and conversations. Elizabeth had decided for him that he could not change his mind.  
  
The tumult of her realisation must have shown plainly on her face because Darcy frowned. “This  _surprises_  you.”  
  
“My aunt.” The words were quiet. So suddenly aware of how ridiculous all her ideas had been, Elizabeth could barely force herself to admit to them. “She was trying to forward the match. I thought it was all in her head.”  
  
In a swift, fluid motion, Darcy stood. His face was red. Hurriedly, he addressed the collected party. “Forgive me, but I have just recollected a prior engagement of some import. Miss Elizabeth, if you would be so kind as to see me out?”  
  
The company was, for the most part, surprised at Darcy’s sudden need to leave, but Mrs. Bennet recovered quickly and shooed them both out with haste that suggested she approved of a lovers’ tête-à-tête.  
  
He strode swiftly across the parlour, Elizabeth following behind. In the hallway, he stopped, pulled the door firmly shut behind them and glanced around. His tone low and agitated, he said, “All in  _her_  head? What of mine? Do you suggest I imagined our rapport?”  
  
Evidently, Darcy was not the sort of man to flee and suffer his embarrassment and disappointment in private. She had accounted for her portion of the misunderstanding, but now he asked her to account for his.   
  
“No,” Elizabeth said, “No, you did not imagine anything. I was taken with Mr. White-Pawed Cat from the start. It is only when I learnt he was  _Mr. Darcy_  that I thought it could never be.”  
  
Triumph burned in his eyes. He stood straighter. Fiercely, he whispered, “I come to you now telling you it can be, that I wish for nothing else. Tell me you can love me.”  
  
Elizabeth’s mouth went dry.  
  
The night of the Wilkeses’ ball, she would have been happy to love him. She had been bewitched by it all. His odd costume. His peculiar behaviour. The distinction of such a man noticing her and only her. He had wanted to get to know her. And all at a costume ball she had not been supposed to attend. To meet such a man in such a manner—she had  _wanted_  to love him.   
  
But she had had her heart broken by the revelation that her Mr. White-Pawed Cat was Mr. Darcy. He had not wanted her for a single dance when he could see her face, when he was in the company of her family and knew her connections. How could she ever credit that the allure of Miss Peacock could overcome something he had already been offered and rejected? She had spent too many weeks guarding her heart, refusing to entertain what everyone around her knew to be true.   
  
Elizabeth shook her head.  
  
He looked away.  
  
“I never meant to mislead you.”  
  
“I would never accuse you of such.”  
  
“I had thought my aunt was giving you a great deal of trouble.”  
  
He laughed a bit at that, soft and painful-sounding though it was. “I can no longer wonder why you spoke of her as frequently as you did, and so often with apologies.”    
  
Darcy had been shocked by her response to him, but at least she could be satisfied knowing that she had not been silent on her own view of their courtship and that he recognised it. She had been clear enough, and he had not listened. But then, neither had she.  
  
They stood in the hallway, a pair of lost fools with nothing more to say to one another.  
  
Then, he asked, “Is it hopeless?”  
  
“I do not know.”  
  
***  
Disillusionment had set in.  
  
The disappointment stung more than she would have guessed.   
  
Elizabeth had dressed for the ball with more than her usual care, her awareness of herself heightened by anxiety rather than excitement. By the end of the ball, she would surely know if she could give Darcy reason to hope or if she could never love him. The gown she wore was pretty, but it had been purchased by parents with limited means and four other daughters to dress. The lace was nothing like what Mrs. Barry’s maids would have her wear. The jewellery set she had formerly considered her very best Elizabeth now frowned at. The stones were turquoise, not emerald, and they did not complement her complexion like Mrs. Barry’s jewels did.  
  
Mr. Darcy claimed her hand for the first set, but he had nothing much to say to her. Elizabeth could not blame him for his reticence—he fancied himself in love with what he saw in London, and now he was learning that she was the same woman she had always been. She was too cynical to have been won over by a single conversation’s worth of devotion, but have her skepticism rewarded still hurt.  
  
Still, Elizabeth did not care much for silence. “We must have some conversation.”  
  
“I should say whatever you wish, of course.”  
  
“Oh, do not say  _that._  I like foolishness very much, and you would not want to make a fool of yourself.”  
  
He bristled. “I can laugh at myself.”  
  
“I am relieved to hear it. Mastery of such a skill is necessary when one has been as big a fool as we have.”  
  
“You assess yourself harshly.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“What wrongs have you committed?”  
  
“Well, once there was a young man who paid me a great deal of attention, which I chose to attribute to the delusions of an old widow. I admit it is perhaps not a great moral failing,  but upon reflection, I see the absurdity.”  
  
“If you must blame anyone, you ought to blame me.”  
  
“In that case, I will gladly surrender it all to you. Now you may not accuse me of being harsh on myself; I am quite kind to me.”  
  
Darcy shook his head. “You are modest, so modest, in fact, that you think yourself vain.”  
  
She laughed. “I do?”  
  
“Those weeks I was pursuing you, you never once considered yourself worthy of my notice. There are many who would celebrate such humility, but in this instance, I should not dare congratulate you on your modesty. Rather, I ought to deride myself for not disabusing you of it.”  
  
Elizabeth pursed her lips. “It is not modesty. It is a  _grudge._ I have not forgotten what you said about temptation. Oh! I suppose I  _am_  vain!”  
  
He did not laugh, or reply. Instead, he grew very pale and could scarcely be cajoled into saying another word for the rest of their dance.  
  
She still did not care much for silence, but eventually, she gave up.  
  
***  
  
The answer, it seemed, was  _no_ , and Darcy would probably be relieved to hear it if an answer was still necessary. She doubted it was. In spite of herself, Elizabeth could not shake a heightened awareness of Darcy. She noticed when he danced with Miss Bingley, and again when he danced with Mrs. Hurst. When he lurked at the edges of the room, speaking to no one, she decided to put a happy spin on it—at least he was returning to his old, comfortable behaviours. He spoke to Jane, and Elizabeth was proud of him for getting into the spirit of the evening.  
  
By the two fifth, Elizabeth was dancing with Dick Lucas, a boy she had known all her life. He thought of her only as a friend of his sister, and so he was not the sort of man to be offended should Elizabeth pay him no attention at all. A lucky circumstance, for she was not paying Dick any mind. She had somehow lost track of Darcy. He was not in the set. He was not speaking to anyone. If he were walking circles around the room, he was managing to do so while staying out of her line of sight no matter which way she turned her head. Elizabeth supposed he could have gone into the card room, but little as he danced, she had never known him to remove himself from the festivities.  
  
Had he decided further attendance was so pointless that he had just gone to bed?  
  
She could hardly credit it, if only because he ought to be a better friend to Mr. Bingley than that.  
  
Elizabeth caught sight of Mr. Darcy again after the set ended and Dick had gone off in search of his next partner. She would have to apologise for ignoring him later. Given her own resolution and Darcy’s inability to sustain interest, she ought not let him dominate her thoughts so. She supposed it must be because after this night, they were unlikely to see much of one another again. Silly as it was, she needed some assurance that this episode would not intrude on his peace.  
  
Darcy caught her eye from across the room. How embarrassing! What was he to think? He began moving through the crowd towards her. She did not dare move, only watched him approach. He seemed so purposeful. It was almost comical—his purpose at a ball.  
  
“Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy held out his hand. “Will you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”  
  
Mortified, her eyes darted away from his steady gaze, looking down for a moment and then back up to his face. Instinct and promises and anxiety warred inside of her. She always accepted an offer to dance. She had, technically, already agreed to two sets. What conclusion had he drawn from knowledge she was watching him?    
  
He had not dropped his hand. It was extended, palm up, waiting for her.  
  
All she had to do was take it.  
  
Elizabeth looked down again.  
  
He was wearing white slippers.  
  
So determined was she to protect her heart, she neglected to consider she did not need to.   
  
Elizabeth took the offered hand. “Always, Mr. Cat.”  
  
***  
“Mary? She wants Mary?”  
  
“What? No one wants Mary!” Kitty leaned toward Lydia and snatched the letter out of her hand.  
  
“Mrs. Barry writes she shall find a husband for Mary next!” Lydia cried. “It ought be my turn!”  
  
“Indeed it should!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “I would not send Mary for all the world! She is a silly girl that does not know her own best interest. Lizzy, you would have been mortified were you here when Mr. Collins visited. He made your sister a very fine offer and she would not be persuaded to accept it. I expected better from her, I really did. She’s usually so agreeable! Where is the paper? I will be sending Lydia, and Mrs. Barry will be happy to receive her and that will be that!”  
  
Breakfast at Longbourn was never a dignified affair. Always, someone was giggling and someone else was having an outburst. There was always news to be shared, letters to written. The first time Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley had come for breakfast, Elizabeth fancied they had found it shocking at best, if not intimidating. Now they were such frequent guests that if they registered the ravings of Mrs. Bennet and her youngest daughters, they did not show it.  
  
Elizabeth leaned towards Darcy. “You shall have to write to the colonel. He was a good friend to me when I was in Town and I should like to know he is looking out for Mary.”  
  
“Mary, not Lydia? Your mother appears determined.”  
  
“She is, but Mrs. Barry must always have her own way. Now, since I intend to relinquish my own name, you may tell Colonel Elephant that he may call Mary ‘Miss Peacock’ if he likes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by Darthmelyanna and Lucy Katie.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was beta'd by Ms. Pimprenelle and FeliceB.


End file.
